We can neither confirm nor deny
by Mentallyconfusedidiot
Summary: Molly doesn't know what to think when their quiet lunch is interrupted by a schoolgirl who wears sunglasses despite the cold english weather.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: Okay, so I totally feel the need to explain this thing. I am interested in the idea of Sherlock interacting with someone like Lo, but not necessarily in a "explicit" fashion. But I like to play with the ambiguity of it, and how people around them would try to understand it . This is one of those "I can neither confirm nor deny" scenarios._

Molly and Sherlock were sitting in the hospital canteen, eating lunch.

Well, she was eating and he was periodically sulking. He had not even glanced at his own tray of food (she was surprised he even took some) and was impatiently waiting for her to finish up so she could hand him the patient files for the decapitated young couple waiting up in the morgue.

Just another Monday really.

But here's the thing, or rather the _incident_ that stuck with her even after she got home.

It sounds crazy but, there was this _girl._

They were sitting there at opposite sides of the table, basking in the awkward silence (on her end) when she caught a glimpse of something red in the corner of her eye. Her first thought was that it might be a patient, bleeding perhaps. But when she really turned her head to look, she saw that it was not – but she was no less alarmed.

A girl of maybe 13-14 was standing in the doorway. She was wearing heart shaped sunglasses, perched on her head like a crown. This is one of the parts she will remember most, maybe because the sun hadn't shone for almost two weeks.

She reminded Molly of those fairy books about hobgoblins and fey creatures that for all the world seemed harmless but turned out to be the ones that would steal your teeth and eat your flesh if you weren't careful. Her auburn hair was pulled into messy braids that swayed lightly when she turned her head. She was dressed in a typical school uniform, and for a moment Molly considered that someone was pulling a leg on one of the interns to see how much they could make them blush. But to further amazement, the girls eyes lit up suddenly and with great confidence she skipped right up to their table. Not only Molly stared, but so did the whole canteen. She almost had a heart attack when the girl firmly planted both hands on Sherlocks shoulders and shook him slightly.

It was like watching someone hurl a kitten at Darth Vader.

_Don't mess with a sleeping dragon, don't mess with a sleeping dragon _she thought and shrunk down in the plastic leather of the corner booth.

Then the girl said something then that she almost did not catch, perhaps because it had been so unexpected.

"Oi stinkface! I was looking for you upstairs!" she whined in teasing fashion. she had not stopped shaking his shoulders.

Sherlock tilted his head a bit and gave the girl a sidelong glance. Molly was just waiting for the onslaught of peppered insults and tears, and kind of felt bad for the poor kid.

He shrugged one shoulder slightly before taking a small sip of his tea, the only thing that passed through his lips from the tray. Then he answered her in his usual low baritone voice.

"Well, here I am. How was school?"

_What._

The girl settled her elbows against the table and sighed dramatically like she had been through a war. She started playing with the salt and pepper shakers, licking her thumb to catch salt crystals.

"Terrible, we don't get to have any sort of fun. Barton pulled up my skirt during choir practice so I had to slug him in the face. But I think I did him a favour and HEY! Are those curly fries? Great, I'm starving!"

And without further ado, she had made Sherlock scoot over in the booth like it was really intended for her in the first place. Sherlock did not scoot over for anyone, not for his brother, not at gunpoint and certainly never for some preadolescence school girl. Then Molly cleared her throat, because she felt the need to actually know what the fuck was going on.

"Uhm, Sherlock – who is your…friend?" she asked timidly, but before he had time to answer the girl licked her fingers carefully and stuck out a sticky hand towards her, smiling.

"Hey there miss! My name is Lo! I'm his charity case, and he found my mom's cat once. But it was dead, so we buried it at once before it started stinkin´ up the place." She said animatedly, shaking her hand vigorously. Molly drew her hand back and immediatly reached for a napkin.

"Oh, I see." she replied, but she did not see.

Sherlock only had one friend, _one._

It was then that she noticed the way Sherlock was looking at her. The way his gaze lingered on her neck, her mouth and then her hair. It reminded Molly of the way he sometimes looked at corpses. But that was not right, because this was anything but cold and calculated.

It was almost like, like…

The girl shifted in her seat and smiled at him with her mouth full of fries, ketchup stains on her cheeks. He did not smile back, but he did push the tray closer to her end with one pale finger.

She wondered when candid camera would show up through the door, surely it would be any minute now. Because this could not be what it looked like, right? Right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Oh my, I can't believe I actually did another one! Those of you who have read Lolita might recognize a few details here and there, and also the mentions of greek mythology. **

* * *

If not for the circumstances, she looks as if she's simply relaxing in the sun. The room is sparse, and the floor is all hard concrete. But there is a large window that nobody has bothered to put bars on, maybe they figured she wouldn't try to go through it anyway. She lies spread eagle among the dust, very still except for her mouth, which is forming words.

She's drunk, somewhere they can't reach her now. They never could really.

_Carmen, Carmen oh my Carmen_

_The stars and the cars and the bar man…_

Her cheeks are plum colored and bruised, her mouth too red. She starts singing her way through the alphabet. There are some more bruises still dotted along her arms and legs. The large beefy men who thought they'd make the innocent little girl talk pretty are starting to sweat and curse. She's the wrong wind up toy, and no matter how they try her tune won't change a bit. They could break her apart and look for it, but she still won't. She giggled when they asked her if she'd like to know how it would feel to have her feet cut off.

She's not giggling now.

Her lips are chapped, and when she licks them it tastes like old keys and metal.

Five hours go by, then something changes.

She knows instantly when _he_ steps through the entrance. it's like those last five minutes of school, her energy returning with a vengence. She stands up and stretches slightly on her toes, as if simply waking up after a catnap. She slides quietly underneath the cot in the room, and waits. Her eyes glitter from the lamplight under the door.

Five minutes later a man goes in to collect her, and she reaches out a tanned hand under the cot to grab his ankle. Her fingers are small and grubby, but she's had practice. She grabs the gun from him, holds it against his temple with confidence as he stares at her, terrified.

Abruptly she directs the gun away towards the window and fires three rapid shots. Nothing more than that. Just like they tell you in stories, it is a magical number. She is summoning her favorite beast.

She curls her toes into the dust as if it is fresh spring grass, wipes her mouth with the back of one hand.

Under her feet, she can feel the chaos unfolding from the floor below. When she smiles, the man in the corner pisses his pants.

* * *

School is usually a bore, and she has to sit still for so long and listen to old boring people talk of older boring things. Her classmates are entertaining, she supposes. But even then, she can't make herself pay attention to them for too long. She likes it when they get to do stuff, like gym and home ec, even though she can't even boil potatoes properly.

One thing Dolly loves especially is the hockey practice. In the beginning it had been her mother's idea, which (surprisingly) turned out to be a great one. There's nothing like coming home after a game with scrubbed knees, sore limbs and mud in her hair. The viciousness of it is freeing and perfect.

The poplars sway and sing with her as she goes, the wind catching on her caked eyelashes.

* * *

Dolly doesn't pay much attention in history, but something about mythology has her confusedly alert. As if it applies to her specially, somehow.

She stares at a drawing of Persephone in her textbook and shakes her head. Her face is too bright and pretty. It seems inaccurate and silly, although she can't say why.

She burrows deeper into the midnight scarf around her neck, and breathes.


	3. Chapter 3

She curves her neck and bumps her head against his shoulder sleepily. He doesn't look up from his work nor does he touch her, but when he talks his voice is somewhat softer – less ice.

"You sound tired."

"I don't wanna go to bed." She whines tiredly, her eyes following the creases in his shirt. He sighes deeply, the sound running fresh through her mind like cold wind in an empty room. He drags out a chair next to him and pats it. Wordlessly, she sits.

"There is a bag of crisps somewhere." He mumbles, eyes never leaving his microscope. Her painted toes wiggle against the floor as she watches him work in curious silence.

* * *

It had been a cloudy April day.

She was sitting in Mrs. Trombones class – English lit.

_God, her skirt was so itchy – she wanted to rip it off. _

Four girls were whispering in the back, and the boy next to her thought she didn't notice when he stole glances at her every 5 seconds or so.

She noticed.

She pretended not to hear them whispering about her, chose not to. The teachers voice blared on in the background like a dragging opera singer and only functioned as alternative entertainment. Bland yet amusing in her failures, she got balled up paper planes instead of roses.

The class boomed and cheered as Virgil got sent out of class, a performance well received by his peers.

And Dolly in her box at the side of the scene, looking out the window at the bleary weather which matched her eyes. She let her pen almost drop out of her hand, limply drawing circles in her notebook. She focused on the shapes the water drops made across the window pane, like tiny roads and temporary mountains.

The green courtyard below stood empty , no cricket matches today.

And yet as she looked, as if she had willed it out of her imagination – a figure appeared just around the hedge down below. The rain hammering against the window made it hard at first to see, but it was a man. It was definitely a man, tall and dressed in black – his shape moved like a black patch of smoke. Men weren't allowed on the school grounds. He stood still for awhile, seemingly waiting for something. Dolly craned her neck to see better, to see more.

He was like a ghost, she could not make out his face.

Then she thought she heard him shout abruptly, but it was so muffled that nobody else seemed to notice. Then another person appeared, and the man in black gave chase across the green plain.

She thought about it for a moment, then with a loud squeak of her chair, she turned to the teacher and asked to be excused to use the bathroom. The hallways were all empty, as classes were still in session. She passed a hall monitor, fast asleep in a low chair, her spectacles slowly but steadily slipping down her nose. She hurried through the corridors, down to where everybody kept their outdoor coats and caps.

A yellow raincoat and her red boots, squeaking against the wooden floor. The stone pavement was slick with water, as she went outside to look. She just wanted to look.

The rain had turn to a thick humid mist, and it was awfully quiet.

At first it seemed like both men had gone, but as she turned another corner she spotted him standing against the wall under the awning. She felt like a person stranded on an island, finding something shiny washed up by the shore. She had never seen someone so, so…

He looked dead. Like an honest to god corpse, like that one picture she had seen in a newspaper once of a floating body in the ocean. His eyes were gleaming strangely, she didn't like it.

_I should tell, I should tell someone I should – _

When he met her eyes with his own, she almost jumped. They were a pale grey, eerily a bit like her own.

"You followed me." He said, it was hard to tell if he was accusing her or…she shrugged a little.

"It's been a boring day." she says. His eyes widen a bit, she seems to have surprised him. He then proceeds to stare at her boots as if they're somehow significant. She walks over to him to lean against the brick wall like he is, it reminds her of the older girls who come here to smoke. She doesn't tell him to go away, she has to know what he is doing here.

"Who were _you _following?" she asks, shifting her feet in the muddy grass. She half expects him to shout, or to tell her it's not any of her business. She won't mind it if he does, she's used to that. She always asks the wrong questions anyway. The ghostly man surprises her by shrugging his shoulders, looking resigned.

"Nobody special." He says shortly, looking away from her. He's so much like a little boy who doesn't think the little sister understands his games. People are usually like that, with her. She scoffs, kicks at the dirt.

"You didn't catch him though." She says airily to the grass, replaying the scene in her mind. He doesn't answer for a long moment, and when she looks at him again he's watching her. He's not a little boy anymore. She should probably not even be talking to someone like him. He looks at her as if he's discovered something nasty in her coat pocket, and liked what he saw.

"I could, if you helped me."

Knocking someone out cold isn't difficult, especially for a 13 year old with experience of wielding a hockey stick. The gardener is taken away and put in prison, and nobody ever mentions him again.

But talks of a dark clad man is mentioned, and of pale grey eyes.


End file.
